The thought stops me cold. I cannot let her die when I know what to do.
My heart pounds as I turn back to my pouch. Slowly, deliberately, I draw out what I need and lay it on the table—nothing excessive, nothing that might draw attention. Leaves. Bark. Dried stems, no different to the untrained eye.
I do not reach for the knife. Instead, I crush the herbs between my fingers, feeling them give, their scent blooming against my skin, clinging to it. This is how Tata taught me—skin to leaf, palm to bark, for the body knows what the blade cannot. The water sighs as I pour it over the herbs,and my breath steadies as I stir, slow and unbroken. The surface darkens, thickens, the steam carrying a deeper scent now.
I lean closer and murmur, so quietly my lips barely move.
Old sounds shaped by rhythm and care, murmured to the brew itself. Gratitude. Permission. The same syllables I learned as a child, whispered over scraped knees and sleepless nights. I do not raise my voice. I do not cross myself.
I stir.
Once. Twice. Three times, until the brew settles.
My heart still races, but my hands are steady as I return to Neaga's side and lift the cup carefully to her lips.
She drinks in small, uneven sips, the liquid spilling at the corners of her mouth. Each swallow costs her effort, a weak cough breaking through before she manages the next. The heat of her skin seeps into mine. When the cup is empty, I set it aside and wipe her mouth with the corner of the cloth, taking her wrists gently in my hands.
Too hot. Too thin.
I should not touch her like this. I know that. I have been told often enough. But I know, too, what helps. My thumbs find the places Tata taught me to press, slow and measured, following the fragile rhythm I feel there. Her breath deepens, just slightly, with each pass. I lower my head and murmur the old words, barely shaping them, sound dissolving into breath before it can become anything else. Neaga does not stir. She cannot hear them.
After a moment, her eyes open again, unfocused, searching the dim light. "Raveena," she whispers, voice scraped raw. "They’re watching."
My hands still.
"No one is here," I answer quickly, though I don’t know why I need to say it.
Her gaze opens fully. It fixes on me with something that does not belong to sickness. Not entirely.
"They stand very still when they listen," she insists. "Like saints carved in wood. But they blink."
My stomach turns.
Her hand clamps around my sleeve, her grip startlingly strong. Her breath spills hot against my wrist. "I’m afraid," she says.
The words catch me off guard.
"Don’t speak," I shush gently. "Save your strength. It'll pass."
"Not for me."
Her gaze drifts toward the far corner, where her child sleeps behind the heavy curtain.
"If I don’t wake up," the words leaves her in a whisper, "you’ll look after Ilinca. Won’t you?"
My throat closes. "Neaga, you’re not going to die."
She exhales, the sound strained. "You’re kind. Like your father."
The mention of Tata settles heavily in my chest.
"But I hear them," her voice drifts in and out now. "What they say when they think I don’t. About me. About her." A thin, brittle laugh slips free. "They weren’t always like this."
Her gaze focuses for a heartbeat, clarity cutting through the haze. "Things were different when my Vlad was alive."
Her mouth softens around the name.
"They trusted him," her fingers twitch against mine. "Respected him. He kept the old ways, but he knew when to bend. Like your father. People came to us then. They listened."
